


boy, you're gonna carry that weight

by youlldo (mcrs)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M, me getting an angsty fic out of my system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcrs/pseuds/youlldo
Summary: He and John are at a stalemate. He’s never been afraid of saying no to John, and John’s never been afraid of telling him to fuck off. But this time it’s different. This time, Paul says no, and John shrugs his shoulders and walks away. This time, Paul says no and John turns to Yoko who says yes.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64





	boy, you're gonna carry that weight

**Author's Note:**

> i've had some little song-inspired fics stuck in my head for a few weeks now and needed to get one out

Paul knows something is wrong.

All of them know it, but none of them say it. They’re snapping at each other, griping, finding faults where they would previously have found humour and discord where they would previously have found unity. The more Paul tries to keep them together, the more they fall apart. He’s desperate, clutching at straws, starting arguments just to try and get a reaction out of them, get them to show they still _care_.

The worst is John.

He and John are at a stalemate. He’s never been afraid of saying no to John, and John’s never been afraid of telling him to fuck off. But this time it’s different. This time, Paul says no, and John shrugs his shoulders and walks away. This time, Paul says no and John turns to Yoko who says yes. 

They’ve always had what Ringo called _some kind of weird fucking foreplay_. They’ll dance around each other, fighting for dominance and attention, but their eyes never stray from one another. Or, at least, they didn’t. Paul doesn’t fucking know anymore, and it makes his head hurt to think about it.

He writes fragments of songs to try and cope, get it off his chest, writing cryptic lyrics and not-so-cryptic lyrics crying out for help, for attention, for _John_. His chest is permanently caving in on itself without John, his lungs burning for air, his vision swimming and hazy. Paul sometimes wonders if he even sees colours anymore without John.

Sometimes John takes the bait. Sometimes the phone will ring at odd hours of the night, and Paul will pick up and hear nothing but breathing on the other end of the line. It splinters his heart further, because this isn’t what they should be like, but all he does is listen to John’s breathing until they both fall asleep, having never said a word. Then Paul wakes in the morning, neck cricked and eyes dry but feeling more well-rested than after a night in his soft bed with Linda, and he puts the phone down. For some reason, John never hangs up first.

Things are supposed to be _good_. They’ve had an incredible career, impacted music like no other band before them, influenced cultural and counter-cultural movements for an entire decade, created a legacy that Paul can die happy with – but that’s the whole fucking _point_ , isn’t it, because without John he can’t die happy at all. Things are supposed to be at their peak, but Paul was happier in Hamburg playing grotty little clubs, getting piss-drunk on cheap beer every night, not washing for days and piling four to a room because they couldn’t afford more than one. It was better than it is now, here, in their well-equipped studio with his bank account overflowing and all the drugs in the world he could want to take his mind off of things.

(Paul’s yet to find a drug that can take his mind off John.)

Paul’s outside the studio, smoking to clear his mind or shorten his fucking life, whichever comes first, when the door behind him opens. He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s John; only John would dare disturb him right now.

John walks up to stand beside him, both of them looking out at the cloudy night sky and saying nothing for a while. Paul exhales slowly, letting a grey cloud of smoke curl between them.

“I found this,” John says, and a piece of paper touches Paul’s hand. He opens it to accept the paper, and looks down. It’s a fragment of a song he’d written down the other day with three-quarters of a bottle of wine steering the pen.

 _I never give you my pillow_  
 _I only send you my invitations_  
 _And in the middle of the celebrations  
_ _I break down_

Paul passes it back without saying a word.

“It’s about me,” John says, matter-of-fact. Paul doesn’t bother denying it. They both know each other too well for that.

“Is there a point to this?” Paul asks.

“You don’t let me in anymore,” John says.

“You don’t want to be let in,” Paul says.

“Maybe not,” John admits. Paul shrugs, and takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I send you my invitations,” he quotes. He does - he starts fights with John, shouts at John, writes songs about John, argues about how to play with John. 

“I need your pillow,” John says.

“I’m not chasing you, John,” Paul says. “I’m tired of that shit. We’re too old to play games.”

“What are we doing now, then, eh?” John says, and Paul has to concede with a wry smile.

“You know we’re too broken now, anyhow,” he says. 

“Yeah,” John says, and that fucking _stings_. Paul knows it, John knows it, but they don’t say it. When they say it, it becomes real.

Neither of them speak for a long moment, but Paul passes his cigarette to John without asking. John takes a long drag, then hands it back to Paul, catching Paul’s hand in his own as soon as Paul puts the fag in his mouth and drops his hand to his side. It’s warm and familiar, calloused fingers stroking the back of Paul’s rough hand.

“Why are you doing this shit, Paul?” John murmurs after a moment.

“For you,” Paul says. _To get you back. To make you mine again._

“I’m not yours,” John says.

“You won’t ever not be,” Paul says. “Lennon-McCartney, love.” It slips off his tongue, easy as it used to, and John’s fingers still on Paul’s hand for a split second.

“We need to talk about that,” John says.

“Not now,” Paul says, a pleading note in his voice. This is the first civil conversation they’ve had in months, the first conversation without Yoko in God knows how long, the first time he’s had John to himself again.

“Not now,” John agrees. They’re silent for a moment again, John’s thumb stroking Paul’s rhythmically. Paul takes the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out beneath his feet. He doesn’t need it anymore.

“You going to finish that song then?” John asks.

“Don’t know how,” Paul says.

“You’ll find the words,” John says. “You always do.”

“Don’t sound so sure,” Paul mutters. John huffs out a laugh. 

“You’re Paul Mc-fucking-Cartney, love,” he says, and the word slips off his tongue too, easy as it used to, and Paul’s hand tenses in John’s for a split second. Finally, he turns to face John, and sees him already blinking at Paul behind his stupid fucking glasses.

“Hi,” John says, with a crooked smile.

Paul brings his free hand up to cup John’s face, stroking his thumb across John’s jaw.

“Hi,” he says, and it feels like the first time they’re _truly_ greeting each other in a long, long time.

Paul leans forward and presses his lips to John’s, feeling them soft, warm, familiar beneath his own. They kiss for what feels like a fucking eternity, pressing closer and closer but it’s still not enough; nothing would ever be enough except being in each other’s fucking skin. John’s free hand slips around Paul’s waist, pulling him closer and stroking the curve of his hip, and Paul kisses John harder, desperate, wanting to get across everything he’s wanted to say, whisper, yell at John for the past two fucking years. _I miss you, I need you, I want you._

_I love you._

Eventually, they break apart, resting their foreheads together, and Paul lets his hand drop to the nape of John’s neck, stroking the soft hair there.

“What now?” Paul asks, breaking the silence.

“Now?” John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now we finish an album, and then we die. And you get reborn, and you go on.”

“And you?”

“I stay down with the dead,” John says.

“Why?” Paul asks.

“I wasn’t made to live without you,” John says simply. “You did this, Paul. I had to make a choice. Save you, or save myself. You can go on now precisely because I can’t.”

And then he turns, hand slipping out of Paul’s with one last squeeze, and he’s gone, only the sound of the door clicking shut to remind Paul that he was ever there. Paul barely even notices the gaping void John leaves in his wake, too busy with the echo of his words.

John’s giving up everything, _everything_ he loves for Paul. He’s giving up music, his career, his friends, his happiness, so Paul can have that for himself.

John’s chosen Paul’s life over his own.

And suddenly, Paul knows how the song must go.

 _Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight,  
_ _Carry that weight a long time_


End file.
